


all around me are familiar faces

by Shadowstar



Series: The Other Side of the Rainbow [5]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek Hale is Stiles Stilinski's Anchor, Doppelganger, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8533582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstar/pseuds/Shadowstar
Summary: Stiles can't run from the doppelgangers forever, especially when they work in the same building he's kind of trapped in. But he's making progress, in more ways than one.





	1. look me in the eye

**Author's Note:**

> So I am posting this on AO3 first vs. my usual act of posting on Tumblr first; mostly, I'm doing it because this part is sectioned off into 3 separate parts. Some notes for this one include the three superheroes that are mentioned in the character tags; technically, Arrow!verse/Legends!verse has already cast Huntress (Helena Bertinelli) and Star Girl (Courtney Whitmore), but I said fuck it, they're two of my favorites, I'm going with it. Especially with Huntress; they totally butchered her and Canary on Arrow, and I REFUSE that reality and substitute it for my own.  
>  **Unbeta’d** ; please send any concrit or noticed mistakes to my inbox. Plz and thx.
> 
> The title of this part comes from _Mad World_ by Gary Jules:  
>  **"All around me are familiar faces,**  
>  Worn out places,  
> Worn out faces..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title for this chapter is from _Cut_ by Plumb:  
>  I may seem crazy  
> Or painfully shy  
> And these scars wouldn't be so hidden  
>  **If you would just look me in the eye**  
>  I feel alone here and cold here  
> Though I don't want to die  
> But the only anesthetic that makes me feel anything kills inside"

The training room has become their new base, and it’s a lot more forgiving to the scorch marks he inevitably causes while practicing creating fire balls. So far, he’s mastered all of the basic magicks Zatanna has taught him, and he’s slowly progressing into the more advanced workings. It’s come to the point where he’s started using words to focus his spells, finding—likely because of his teacher—that logomancy is the way that his power is best focused. He’s gone, now, from simply manipulating the elements and focusing his power to really, truly manipulating the very fabric of reality. 

He realizes pretty much immediately that there’s _no fucking way_ he’s ever going to be as focused or as powerful as Zatanna. The woman has been doing this all her life, was literally _born_ to it, and has had time to master her magick in a way that he can only _dream_ of doing. Maybe if he takes the time to practice once he gets home, maybe if he buckles down and actually _owns_ this shit, he _might_ be even a _fraction_ as good as Zatanna. And it’s not just because he’s pretty good at beating himself down; she really, truly is _that_ good. 

“You’ve come a long way in such a short amount of time, Stiles,” Zatanna praises, even as she sits almost limply in the chair along the wall near the stairs and door leading out of the room. She is addressing him where he stands in the center of it, a hunk of shiny metal twisted and deformed on the floor in front of him. It had started out as sand, a small cup of it that she’d snagged off someone’s desk in the hub.

Her words are genuine, and they leave him feeling warm, relieved. Especially when the past few days have not been so great; panic attacks, apparently, kill his ability to focus his magick, and he’d spent several hours having to rework a chunk of blackened glass back into the vase it’d started as.

It had taken a lot of searching his mind to find something to pull him back into focus. It turned out to be the memory of the slightly exasperated look on Derek’s face when he’d asked if Derek could punch a hole through a wall while not really being able to get enough momentum. There had been something almost _fond_ in that look, especially when he’d proceeded to then demand a testing of Derek’s abilities.

“Thanks. Feels like I’ve been here forever, though,” he admits to the last, a confession of his anxious thoughts, his _need_ to get home. He can only imagine what the others thought had happened to him, not to mention what had happened to Donovan, to his school, to his _Jeep_.

Her eyes soften in the dim lighting of the training room, and she pushes herself shakily to her feet; she’d come through her portal looking more than a little exhausted, and had instructed him through his practice today in a voice that wavered around a yawn. He felt bad to be taking up her time, like this, knowing that she had other—likely more important—things she should be doing, rather than spending time on his spazzy ass.

She had never once complained in the weeks that they’ve been doing this, though. Hadn’t even made it seem like a burden, no matter how close to dropping she got.

“You’re getting pretty close to starting to work on portals. You just need to fine-tune your matter manipulation a little bit more,” she informs him, pressing her hand to his arm, giving it a warm, gentle squeeze.

“Part of me feels like I… Maybe I should stay here,” he sighs, staring once again down at the hunk of metal that looks, vaguely, like a sea urchin. It’s even kind of the correct color.

Kind of. If sea urchins came in a shiny, grey-ish purple.

“Part me feels like I should keep you here,” she agrees with a soft sigh, giving his arm another squeeze before crossing her arms over her chest. “But I know you don’t, ultimately, belong here. And you’re not _needed_ here like you are in Beacon Hills.”

He blinks at her in surprise, unsure of what to say. He was definitely aware that she’d done something at their first meeting, supposedly to determine how he’d gotten where he was in the first place. In order to do so, though, she’d cast a spell, the words of which had burned into his brain. It hadn’t been painful, per se, but it had definitely knocked him out, had felt like he’d had something pulled out of him.

He hesitates a moment before taking a breath, steadying himself, not sure if he’s going to want the answer but too curious not to ask in the first place.

“When… you did the thing to see how I got here, what… What happened?” It’s been something he’s wondered since they started training, but she hasn’t ever said a word, or given away what it was that made her already dark eyes go even darker when she watches him, sometimes.

Right now, she hesitates, as though not quite sure whether or not she wants to answer that. The resignation that settles in the lines of her mouth, her shoulders, tells him it wasn’t good and he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“I saw some of your memories. All of them about Beacon Hills, and the lead-up to the situation that caused you to be here. And before you say anything, all I did was _see_ ; it was like looking at pictures, or gifs on the internet. There was no sound, there was no real context, no emotion attached to it. But I saw… a lot.” It seems to almost pain her to admit, as though it’s not something she feels comfortable even admitting to herself. And he understands that, probably better than anyone, but the content of her words…

Part of him thinks he should be worried. That he should freak out, demand she forget it all. Part of him that thinks this was a monumental breach of trust, and that he _shouldn’t_ trust her. But surprisingly, that part is _small_. In a fundamental way, he _knows_ her. Not just in the weeks that they’ve spent training, but in the way she’s appeared in his favorite cartoons and comics. The way she’s been a part of his upbringing, familiar and strong and so damn _powerful_ , so essentially good, that she was included—always—in one of DC’s biggest superhero teams. _The_ team, as a matter of fact.

It’s absolutely terrifying, but he trusts her the way he trusts Scott—wholly, deeply, and with his _life_.

“I’m sorry,” is what he finally tells her, chest clenching as he thinks about what it is she might have seen in his memories. He’s been tortured, beaten, nearly _broken_ with everything that has happened. And that had all been _before_ the Nogitsune.

“Me, too. Though, I’m more sorry that it is your reality, that you had to go through it. But something tells me you would not be the same young man if you _hadn’t_.” She says it like it’s the simplest truths of the universe, like a universal constant.

“No, I probably wouldn’t be,” he agrees with a heavy sigh, shaking his head slowly. Trying to clear away the melancholy, but it settles onto his shoulders like a familiar blanket.

“You’ve done well, today; why don’t we leave it here?” she suggests, and he glances down at her, catching the way she’s struggling to remain standing straight. The way her exhaustion is almost palpable, like a living thing. He can’t help but wrap a friendly arm around her shoulders, giving her a brief side-hug of commiseration. 

“You should get some sleep,” he tells her firmly, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he finds himself torn between cringing and apologizing, and laughing his ass off. Because, really, when had he started sounding like his dad?

Not that that was a bad thing. Still, though.

She huffs a laugh, probably at the look on his face more than anything, giving his waist a squeeze before pulling away.

“Alright, _mom_ ,” she teases, nudging at him with her hip. “Go, take a walk, get some fresh air. Do something fun.”

“Alright, _dad_ ,” he snidely returns, sticking his tongue out at her, only to laugh and dance out of reach as she swats at him. The laughter feels easier than the pressure of a memory from a moment ago, and it’s a relief as he ascends the short set of steps to get out of the training room.

Her laughter follows him out the door, echoing in his mind as he wanders the hallways. He doesn’t have a destination in mind; he’s already been told he can’t really leave the building, since they don’t know _anything_ about his counterpart on this Earth. And it’s not like he’s allowed access to a good portion of the building, anyway, because it was labs and containment and—well, things that he _really_ didn’t want to deal with.

He wanders through the hub, looking for a distraction; Kara is at work, Alex is in one of the labs, Wynn is working on tracking CADMUS, and he has no idea where Hank is. It would be weird for him to be on first-name basis with so many superheroes, but it’s become almost second nature, by now. Nothing special, just another part of his truly bizarre _life_.

He checks the cafeteria next, and after a brief scan he can’t find Laura, either. Giving a soft huff, thinking about going to the roof, he begins to head in that direction when he _literally_ runs into the _last_ person he wants to see.

Her big brown eyes blink up at him, and her voice gives him an apology for running into him, but of all the things that is really distracting him, it’s her hair. Because it’s longer than he remembers Allison’s hair being, that last time he saw her, and it’s _darker_ , almost black; would be mistaken for black if not for the way it catches the light, reminding him of damp earth and tree bark.

Her frown and arched eyebrows inform he might have been staring too long, and he backs off, taking several steps back, looking into her face and trying desperately not to let his panic grip him again.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone have nearly as severe a panic attack as the one you had,” she informs him, thoughtful, curious. Tactless. It makes him cringe, stuffing his hands into continually borrowed sweats, clenching them against his thighs.

“You look like my best friend’s dead girlfriend,” he blurts out, the word-vomit spewing forth and into her ears and making _her_ flinch.

“Wow. That… Wow, okay,” she huffs a laugh, making a motion like she wants to push her fingers through her hair. But her hair is back in a French braid, the end tucked under securely against the nape of her neck. Functional. Her hand drops, then is offered. “Helena Bertinelli,” she introduces.

He gapes at her, then takes her hand. Continuing to gape at her, through the handshake, and then through the pointed hand squeeze she gives him because he’s continuing to be kind of a creep and _stare_.

But he can’t help it, okay? Helena Bertinelli. Of _all_ the superheroes he could possibly have pictured Allison-look-alike, Huntress was _definitely_ not it.

“Ah, gah. Sorry,” he tells her, stumbling over his words as he finally releases her hand, feeling distinctly like he might geek out, like he wants to panic, and he isn’t sure which part of him is going to win out at this point. “I just. I.”

“Right. Alex said you were from some dimension where we’re all…fictional?” she shoots back, crossing her arms over her chest, her cheeks dimpling with her sharp grin.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, something like that,” he chokes out, voice sounding like it’s changing again and cracking towards the end. He stuffs his fisted hands into his pockets again. Then he startles, waving his hand at himself. “Oh! Right, sorry, almost. Not forgot, just wasn’t going to. Right, anyway, Stiles. I’m Stiles, that’s me.”

Holy shit. Had he just reverted to 15 again in the span of a five minute conversation?

He’s almost distracted enough by his own whirling thoughts that he almost doesn’t catch the frankly _strange_ look that passes over her face. Something frozen, almost like a spasm of something close to pain, before she’s recovering. Her eyes are bright and curious, eyebrows near her hairline, now.

“…Stiles Stilinski? Your parents _really_ named you that?” He will give her an A+ for a valiant effort in not actually laughing at him.

“ _No_. No, I named _myself_ that after spending four years being unable to pronounce my own first name properly, even with coaching from my mom,” he tells her, shrugging. “Hell, I _still_ have trouble to pronounce it. Which is better than _Scott_ ; he just downright _butchers_ it.”

Another bizarre look, but this one is followed by a laugh, so he isn’t too interested in digging for answers about it. He’s so, _so_ tempted to ask if she runs around with a girl in a black leotard who likes to scream at things, but that seems almost too easy.  Also asking if she really likes to kill things for vengeance would also be bad form.

Her chuckle fades off after a moment, her eyes softening a little bit. Her hand is pressing to his shoulder, and he wonders if it would be calloused like Allison’s had been, fingertips worn from years of shooting a bow. He shakes himself out of thoughts of his dead friend when Helena begins to talk again.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Stiles. And I’m sorry that my looking like her hurt you.” Her concern is genuine, her apology laced with honest sadness for his pain. It makes his stomach turn and twist into knots, leaving him all turned around and inside out.

“Thanks,” he tells her gruffly, because it’s the _only_ thing he can say.

After all, he can’t exactly go telling her that the reason Allison is dead is because of him. That he, essentially, killed her. That Lydia’s Scream for her best friend still echoes in his ears, sometimes even filling his nightmares.

He sucks in a sharp breath when he finds both her hands on his arms, something firm in her face. As though she could read his mind. Or maybe just the thoughts that flit across his face, twisting it into pain and guilt.

Derek had told him, once, that he wore his thoughts on his face for anyone to read, if only they knew him. He can’t remember the last time Scott took the time to look him in the eye, that Malia did more than study his lips and body. The last time that someone besides these superheroes, these virtual _strangers_ , had looked beyond the mask he always wore.

“It wasn’t your fault, Stiles,” she tells him, firm and sure. Like she could _know_ that. His disbelief must show on his face because she huffs at him, her fingers tightening around his arms; he knows that later he will be able to see the marks, there, a reminder of this conversation in the ring of bruises around each of his biceps. As though she could instill her belief through the pain, rewrite his thoughts with it. “It wasn’t. I don’t know what happened, but I do know that.”

There is something dark in her brown eyes. Something that sucks in the light from around the two of them standing there in the hallway, that shadows her eyes in something that he imagines is what makes the Huntress so damn good at what she does.

And then, just like that, it’s gone. She still looks solemn, her grip is still tight and painful, and she is still trying to instill the belief that she apparently has in him that he is innocent.

“I will continue to tell you that until you believe it,” she declares when the silence has weighed on them too heavily for too long. Finally, in the process, releasing his arms and stepping back. As a parting shot, she gives a friendly swat to his shoulder. “I better get back to work before Alex tracks me down and decides I need to show the newbies how to shoot things.”

And just like that, the brief encounter is over, Helena moving past him down the hall and in the direction she had been going when he literally ran into her.

He is on the roof, sitting and thinking and trying not to give into the temptation to throw rocks off the building, when it rather suddenly hits him, painful like her grip had been on his arms.

How the hell did she know his last name?


	2. calm from within the silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from _The Light_ by Disturbed:  
>  "Like an unsung melody  
> The truth is waiting there for you to find it  
> It's not a blight, but a remedy,  
> A clear reminder of how it began  
> Deep inside your memory  
> Turned away as you struggled to find it  
> You heard the call as you walked away  
>  **A voice of calm from within the silence**  
>  And for what seemed an eternity  
> You wait and hoping it would call out again  
> You heard the shadow beckoning  
> Then your fears seemed to keep you blinded  
> You held your guard as you walked away"

It wasn’t even two hours later, coming off the roof, that he finally is confronted by Ninja. And, okay, he can’t help but call the man that; for all that he’s literally built like a goddamn wall, the man moves fast and silent. It’s disconcerting, especially when the face that greets him is Boyd’s. 

Well, sort of. The man is definitely that: a man. He stands differently, more erect, straighter. More at attention. Like a _soldier_ , and it’s eerie as _hell_ , because he’s never, ever pictured Boyd as someone who simply lays down and takes orders lightly. He certainly hadn’t when Derek had been his Alpha, even until the end. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that moment; the one standing at Derek’s shoulder, reaching out to the older man, trying to offer what comfort he can while standing in nearly a foot of water, trying not to look down at Boyd’s body. It makes his stomach churn, now, and the knots that had been there through his talk with Helena return with a vengeance. For just a moment, he’s actually worried he might barf on the poor man, but he holds it together, leaving him to blink awkwardly at the other man.

“You need something?” Boyd’s look-alike asks, slow and careful, as though making sure that he isn’t going to pass out at the man’s feet.

“Uh, no? You’re the one who stopped me, man,” he points out, eyebrows arched at the taller man. Like that would prompt some kind of opening up, or something. He’s hoping for the opening up and less for the ‘something’ since the ‘something’ could be _anything_ , given his luck.

“Just wanted to make sure you were really okay,” comes the sighed admission. Like it’s a visit to the dentist or something. Or, like the man’s been taking pages out of Derek’s book about emotional constipation.

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking so much about Derek, especially right now; it’s distracting, makes his chest ache to add to the knots that have become his guts, and it’s only going to lead to a possible further emotional breakdown later. But Boyd-alike, Ninja, _whatever_ , is looking at him expectantly. Patiently. Like Ninja could wait out a fucking hurricane, just standing there and watching him. It’s not the most comfortable position to be in, either.

“Yeah. For the most part, I mean. I keep running into people who look like people I know,” he admits, without adding the part about death and guilt in there; there are little to no parallels between Boyd and Allison’s death on his conscience. He hates that Boyd died, hates that Derek blames himself even more, but he doesn’t feel even remotely as responsible for it as he had for Allison’s death.

“Yeah?” The man prompts him, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. Drawing him back into the conversation like a blunt two-by-four to the head, only _way_ less painful.

“Uh, yeah. Like. Zatanna looks like my best friend’s girlfriend. It’s really weird because Zatanna is definitely nowhere near the fangirl Kira is,” he tells Ninja with a shrug, grinning a little. Doesn’t know why he goes with that particular comparison, but it works.

At the very least, it makes Ninja chuckle. The chuckle doesn’t last long, though, before it’s replaced by a solemn look. Something like the expression that had been on Helena’s face before she’d grasped his arms, before she’d tried to bruise out his guilt. But it’s different, seeing it on Boyd-alike’s face. It’s not as scary, isn’t as likely to lead him spiraling down into a panic attack if he isn’t careful.

“I look like someone you know, too. Someone who died, judging by your reaction in the cantine.” Just like that, it’s out there. Boyd-alike—and _that_ nickname seems far catchier than Ninja, at least until he can learn the man’s actual name—is so damn _solemn_ when he says it, too. Just like it’s such a simple truth.

“How the hell did you know that?” he has to ask, has to know, because he definitely hadn’t said anything. Isn’t sure that Helena has had time to say anything, either, though he can’t be sure.

“I recognize the signs of PTSD; saw a lot of it when I came back from the sandbox,” is the easy explanation, like that explains how Boyd-alike could _possibly_ even know that his counterpart is buried out by the flattened remains of what was once the Hale house.

“Ooookay?” he returns, drawing the word out, knowing his confusion is pretty damn clear on his face. It earns a roll of dark eyes and a huff of frustration.

“I also know what it looks like when someone thinks they’ve seen a ghost; had a couple buddies who came back and who kept saying, swear to God, that they were seeing their dead buddies.” There’s a moment’s hesitation, and then the dark thing that Stiles has seen on Parrish’s face in the past when he remembers Iraq goes over Boyd-alike’s face. “Seen a few myself, I admit.”

He can’t help but close his eyes in sympathy, flashes of the nightmare of the hospital, the alley, the police station going through his head. Dead, dead, dead; so many dead and injured and nearly killed. He shudders, sucking in a sharp breath before nodding.

“Yeah. I get that. But… Okay, so. I’ve been calling you Ninja in my head, because I’ve seen you a few times but it’d be nice to actually know your name?” He throws it out there as an offer, a question. Something that Boyd-alike can decline to answer if he’s so inclined. And, right, there was no way he was going to mention that he was also calling the man Boyd-alike because that was just…

Yeah. Not Good.

The man laughs, though, warm and deep and not quite like anything he remembers ever hearing from Boyd. Actually, he can’t be sure he ever actually heard Boyd laugh, at all. And that’s kind of disturbing and more than a little sad. Also indicative of how life in Beacon Hills just tends to suck the joy out of life.

“Right. Sorry. Director Henshaw wanted me to make sure you were okay, so he asked me to keep an eye on you.” Boyd-alike offers his hand and Stiles takes it, is shaking it as the man continues by introducing himself, “Sergeant John Stewart.”

If he’d been stunned by Helena, he’s fucking _floored_ by this little revelation. Not literally, thank god, but it’s a damn near thing. He’s sure his mouth is open enough for flies and small furry animals to make nests in, but he can’t _help_ it holy _fuck_.

“No _way_ ,” he breathes, giddy and feeling entirely too far out of his element. If he’s not careful, he’ll turn into Wynn in a moment, but _fuck_. “Dude. You. You. I just. _You_.”

The soldier looks increasingly uncomfortable under his stuttering near-adoration. There are suddenly a million and one questions he’d like to ask of the man standing in front of him, but none of them are anything that he dares to even mention.

“So, the rumor’s true, then. You know about us because we’re fiction or something,” is what John sighs, long and suffering so very like _Boyd_ , it makes him almost choke. But he holds it together, once again caught between a fangasm and grief.

At least the grief isn’t nearly so strong this time.

“Or something, yeah. A lot of something, I just. Dude, sorry, didn’t mean to get all creeper-ville on you. I’m Stiles, by the way,” he tells the man sheepishly, jerking his hand back when he realizes that, this _entire fucking time_ , he’s been holding the man’s hand. He hasn’t felt this young and stupid in a long, long time and while part of him is relieved, the rest of him just wants to crawl into a deep, dark hole and hide for an eternity.

Finally, John just huffs a laugh, shaking his head slowly.

“Nah, man. It’s cool. I understand. I remember the first time we had a celebrity come visit us in Iraq.” There’s an amused little upturn of the man’s lips, and there are creases at the corners of his eyes, and he just looks so goddamn happy. Genuinely, truly at ease, and it eases some of the knots in his stomach, in his shoulders.

“It’s still pretty cool, though. I mean, I’m meeting so many people that I always thought of as characters, and I even had this list when I was little about things that I would ask if I ever got to meet certain superheroes.” It’s an admission he doesn’t expect to give, a memory from a happier time. Far, far happier; he hadn’t seen or touched that list since before his mom died. And that… That was not something he wants to be thinking about, right now.

John seems to catch the shift in mood, the slightest give in the undercurrent in their conversation. Just like Helena, the man reaches out and gently clasps a hand around his bicep, but the man’s hold is nowhere near bruising. It’s oddly soothing, reassuring, reminds him of Boyd all over again.

“You should pull out a few of those questions the next time Superman is here,” John suggests, a surprisingly devious light in his eyes as the two of them start to wander aimlessly down the hallway. It reminds him that this was John Stewart, the most stubborn of Earth’s Green Lanterns and surprisingly the most serious of the group of Lanterns. It makes him want to ask if John has gotten his ring yet, has been called to Oa, has taken the oath of the Lantern Corps.

He doesn’t think it’s likely, though. Not really. Even if he does itch to at least _ask_ about it.

“I’ll think about it,” he huffs, grinning a little. But the grin fades, reminding him of why he calls Superman, Superman despite being asked to call the man Clark on several occasions.

“Don’t tell me you have a crush on the man,” John tells him, _demands_ of him, slow and careful and looking like there might be a palm meeting the back of his head in his future if he doesn’t answer correctly.

“Ah, no. Not on him, specifically. More like… More like I’ve got really old feelings for his look-alike back home that are seriously unrequited and embarrassing.” He doesn’t know why he admits it, why he’s admitting to so _much_. But all of them, they’re all so fucking _easy_ to talk to, even Helena, even if she does _seriously_ make his insides twist from the oddity of her wearing the face of the friend he inadvertently killed.

The thought causes the bruises on his biceps to sting, throb; remind him of her insistence, her attempt at erasing the guilt out of him with the bruises that haven’t even really finished forming yet, despite his pale skin.

It takes him a long moment to realize that John’s stopped, and is staring at him like he’s lost his mind. He has to double check and make sure it’s _him_ that John is actually staring at, and not someone else, given the intensity of that particular stare.

“Dude, _what_?!” he finally yelps when the man shows no signs of either moving, or saying anything to give insight into whatever it is that he’s thinking.

The words get John moving, walking slowly to catch up with him, but the look on the dark man’s face is not something that he’s particularly comfortable naming in any capacity. Especially when it seems to hold no small amount of disdain. Beneath the disdain, too, is something that he can’t quite put his finger on. It’s like the look that Laura had given him, like Helena had given him, but it’s so much _beyond_ that. Possibly because John is older, _looks_ older at least, and seems to be intent on continuing with the silent stoicism that reminds him unnervingly of Deaton.

“So what you’re saying is that Superman looks like the guy you’ve been in love with, and you can’t get over it,” John finally says once he’s caught up, slow and careful which seems to be his default way of speaking. Like he’s got a lot of secrets he’s holding onto, or—and this is more likely—like he’s being super careful with his words.

Also a trait shared with Boyd. In this case, not one he’s appreciating all that much.

His cheeks flush, color and warmth high along his cheekbones. He’s pretty sure he’s probably glowing, and he would groan if he wasn’t absolutely sure it would come out sounding a mix between absolutely pitiful and totally inappropriate. He does, at least, manage a dejected sigh, his shoulders hunching in, arms crossing over his chest.

“So what?” Okay, he doesn’t mean to be snappish about it, but so far John is the only one who’s close to asking him _why_.

“Hey, I don’t mean to offend; just making an observation,” John quickly defends, holding his hands up as though that could stave off any attack sent his direction. At least, of the verbal kind, though that’s not really all that likely to _actually_ work.

“Yeah, well…” He doesn’t know how to finish that thought, isn’t sure there _is_ a finish to that thought that doesn’t include spilling his guts to the—what, fourth person now? Jesus. “Fuck, and I haven’t even ever _told_ him…” The last is muttered on the heels of that particular thought process, one that John seems to at least sort-of understand if his unimpressed look is anything to go by.

“So. Just to break this down: you’ve been in love with this guy for, let me guess, 3 years or so, and you’ve never once mentioned how you feel?” John shakes his head slowly, disbelieving and looking more than a little disapproving.

It makes him squirm under the scrutiny of that gaze, the weight of that disapproval. It feels like disappointing his dad, disappointing Scott almost.

Like disappointing Derek, and _fuck_ that.

“There’s never been _time_. Most of the time he was around, we were mostly running for our lives. And then… then he just _left_ , and he was with someone, and he was so fucking _happy_ I couldn’t _ruin_ that for him.” It rushes out of him, desperate and sad, needing to explain. But even that doesn’t sound quite right. He’d been scared, can admit that, but anymore… “I didn’t want to give him something to stay for, when he desperately wanted to get out of Beacon Hills.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” John sighs, and it startles him; the sound of it, the tone, is so goddamn similar to Derek’s he can’t even begin to understand what it does to his heart. The way it squeezes and flutters and goes utterly _nutso_. If he wasn’t used to his body doing weird things—like tying his guts in semi-permanent knots while talking to doppelgangers—then he’d think he might be having a heart attack.

John twitches, stopping again, only this time dragging him to a stop, too, both hands resting on his shoulders to keep him still. His hold is strong, but not bruising; almost gentle. He appreciates it after the sting in his arm reminds him of earlier, even if it does mean that John is also currently attempting to force eye contact.

“Look, man. You can’t go making choices like that for other people. If there’s one thing I’ve learned being a soldier, you have to let people come to their own conclusion. Have to let them make their own mistakes. And, somehow, I don’t think Derek would have seen staying for you as a mistake.” And John sounds so damn _sure_ , his traitorous heart clenches, spasms, and flutters behind his ribcage. It gives way to something almost like _hope_ , bright and tender and so very fragile, resting just beneath his ribcage against his heart, the traitorous bastard that it is.

Part of him wants to fan that little flame, wants to encourage it, but the rest of him—bitter and scarred and still carrying the darkness of the nogitsune and the death of Allison Argent on his hands—wants to squish it like a squishy thing. Break it, shatter it, crumble it into a million pieces. Because there’s only one way that could have, would have, ended. Only one way it _can_ end.

“I don’t want to be the reason he comes back to that hellhole and dies,” he grunts, pulling out from under John’s hands. His head is ducked, can’t meet John’s eyes, and he turns quickly. Walks even quicker before he can see the sad disappointment, the resignation he _knows_ will be on John’s face, because John is so much like Boyd that it _hurts_.

He hopes in his flight he doesn’t run into anyone else; he doesn’t think he could handle anymore doppelgangers asking him uncomfortable questions about his near-non-existent love life. But of course he is only half as lucky as he should be. He winds up halfway down the hallway leading to his borrowed quarters when he runs into Zatanna.

Literally. Because, apparently, that is his lot in life; running head long into people he’s trying to avoid. Mostly. Zatanna’s never been one to attack him with the notion of his feelings for certain werewolves.

“Holy crap, Stiles; where’s the fire?” she asks him with a laugh, patting his shoulder once they’ve steadied each other.

“Ah, no fire. None. It’s not really a fire situation. More of an avoidance-at-all-costs situation,” he tells her, uncomfortably, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his borrowed sweats. It’s to keep them from waving around and possibly hitting Zatanna in the face; she’s still standing close, easily enough to touch him. But she doesn’t, keeps her hands to herself, though the concern is clear on her face as she looks him over.

“Well. I was actually looking for you,” she informs him with a shrug, her dark eyes still careful on his face.

“Yeah?” He can’t help but sound hopeful, because it could really only mean one thing. It’s what they’ve been working since the very beginning.

“I think it’s time we start working on portals,” she tells him, speaking his thoughts, making him grin bright and open at her. She grins right back, giving a laugh when he pumps his arms into the air with a quiet cheer.

“Let’s get to it!” he declares with a laugh, and she laughs, too. And just for a moment, things are okay. Just for one single second, everything is hopeful and is looking like it will only get better from here.

It’s a moment he’s going to hold onto. He has a feeling he’s going to need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch what John said that Stiles didn't? ;)
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://pinkybitesu.tumblr.com).


	3. pain is gone, hands untied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter title is from _So Far Away_ by Avenged Sevenfold:
> 
> "I love you, you were ready  
> The pain is strong and urges rise  
> But I'll see you, when He lets me  
>  **Your pain is gone, your hands untied"**

Several days after that initial declaration and he’s on his knees, panting and sweating onto the concrete, his arms shaking with the effort it’s taking to hold him up. One would think that it wouldn’t take _physical_ power to be able to use magick, but fuck if it didn’t feel distinctly like he’d been running a goddamn marathon. 

Zatanna kneels down beside him, her knees cracking as she bends them, resting her elbows on them. The real kicker is that there isn’t even any concern on her face. In fact, more than anything, she looks amused.

“You look kind of like a flattened cat,” she tells him unapologetically, grinning bright and wide, and it reminds him of Kira and the fact that under that cute comic fangirl is a fox who likes to trick people. Not so much with Zatanna, but the thought is still pretty close to the same.

“Thanks _so much_ for that,” he grunts at her, still trying desperately to catch his breath.

“You’re doing really well, Stiles. Don’t ever think otherwise. You just have to build up your stamina,” she tells him, encouraging him after teasing him, patting the top of his sweaty head. He can’t help but lean into it, for all that he wants to cringe.

He feels kind of disgusting, actually. A slight shudder works its way up his spine, giving way to something that moves through his entire body.

“Do you… do you really think I can manage it, at this rate?” He has to ask, has to know. Isn’t sure he wants the answer, but he has to know.

“It’s been about a month,” she sighs, thoughtfully. Obviously really thinking about it, about what her answer will be. “So, more than. I actually thought it would take longer.” There is grudging admiration in her voice, but also something else.

Something that has him pausing.

“I can’t stay forever,” he reminds her, thinking back on previous conversations he’s had with her, especially the one he’d had the day he’d talked to Helena and John. He hasn’t talked to either of them, or Laura, since, which he is more than a little relieved for.

“I know,” she sighs, shaking her head, resignation clear in her face. Then it clears, and she smiles, straightening. “But I’m going to make sure that, by the time I send you back, you’ll be more than enough to protect yourself and everyone around you.” He should take that promise with a grain of salt, shouldn’t trust that she was actually going to do what she says, but he knows that she will. At least to her definition of preparation; he knows there’s no way he’s going to be as good as _he_ wants, but it will be enough.

It has to be.

More than that, though, he _trusts_ Zatanna. Not for the first time, it shakes him to his very core that he can actually trust her. He isn’t sure what it says about him, about his instincts, that he would trust her over someone that he has actually known before. Scott has been upset with him a lot recently—at least, before this month of being here, and training; he can only wonder what was going on at home, how everyone was fairing there—with the way he won’t trust Theo.

But there was something distinctly gut-kicking about the kid, something that wrenches into him and knots him up, that makes him want to keep his bat close, that makes him want to keep between his friends and the smug prick. He’s successfully managed to put it out of his head, until now.

The thought process has him gritting his teeth and pushing himself to his feet, locking his knees when it seems as though they’re not going to hold him up at first. But then he relaxes, rolls his shoulders, and sets his jaw.

“I can’t stay forever,” he murmurs, a repeat of the words he’s already said. But Zatanna can tell the difference in them; he sees it in her face, the way she straightens and the way her eyes narrow.

“Stiles—“she starts, moving to reach out to him, but she stops herself when the familiar glow of his magick surrounds him, his palm facing outwards.

“I have to go home, at some point,” he tells her, breathing the words as the power pools in his palm, pulled up through him and stretching wide. Pushing past his limit, he knows he’s probably going to pay for it. But it isn’t so far past it that it’s going to do damage. If he doesn’t push his limits, how is he supposed to get better; become good enough to be able to get home?

From the corner of his eye, he can see her lips press into a thin line and her eyes narrow. But the look is brief, before he’s closing his eyes, concentrating. Picturing where he wants to go, keeping it simple, close. The rooftop, his place of refuge.

“Latrop, nepo erofeb em!” he barks, his fingers tensing, flexing, before he pushes the power from his palm into the air. There is a rush of sound, of air that makes his ears pop, before the shocked, excited gasp to his right has him opening his eyes.

Shimmering, hanging in the air, looks to be a window. Well, if the window’s glass was warped and covered in soap. It’s like the shimmering surface of a soap bubble, just hanging there in the air in front of him, though there’s no sound coming through it. Then, the image leaves, replaced with light, and he _knows_ he’s succeeded.

“Holy _shit_ , Stiles!” Zatanna blurts, breathless and excited, happy, clapping her hands eagerly and so very much like Kira in that moment. She presses her hand to his shoulder, and he grunts under the weight of it, under the weight of power that presses into him from her hand, an offering of ‘juice’ for his nearly spent batteries. “Well done! I—holy shit, I didn’t expect you to be able to form a viable portal for at least a week!”

The grin he gives her is sharp, all teeth, one that he’s sure he’s copied from more than one of the wolves he runs with. But it seems fitting; once again, he’s been underestimated, and in this case he feels like he’s almost underestimated himself. After a moment, accepting the power to keep him standing, feeling the sweat pool at the base of his spine, making his scalp itch, he finally lets it go. He clenches his still-raised hand into a palm, the portal closing as he closes his hand into loose fist. The room goes darker than it had been just a second ago. And, rather than feeling like he’s going to fall over again, he feels…

Good. Really, really good. As though he’s finally tapped into something, a power, that had _been there_ , just out of reach this whole time. Something he should have been tapping into but hadn’t been able to. Of course, the little bit of borrowed energy from Zatanna is also helpful.

As soon as the portal is closed, and once he’s steadied himself, her arms are wrapped around him tight. Congratulating him, while also giving into the need to make sure he’s okay. Yeah, she doesn’t have to say anything, he already _knows_ how stupid he just was.

“You are such a genius idiot,” she declares roughly, squished against him to the point of _clinging_ to him. “Fuck, Stiles, you. That was so _dangerous_ ; you were so _exhausted_. If… If you hadn’t… If I hadn’t… You could have torn yourself _apart_.”

He flinches at her words, relaxing into her hold when it becomes apparent that she isn’t going to be letting him go anytime soon.

“I know. I just…” He trails off, unsure how to exactly finish that thought. What all would fill the blank space of words that wouldn’t come off as awful, at least where his friends are concerned. “I just had to try again.”

“I know,” she sighs in return, as though she was a resident in his head and knew his thoughts. Or, at the very least, his thought process. It wasn’t completely accurate, but it was close enough. “You… You ignited your Spark, finally. _Really_ ignited it. I think…” She hesitates, shifting to be able to look at him.

She studies his sweaty face for a long moment, thoughtfully, though her eyes are distant, looking Elsewhere. Then she blinks, and her black eyes are once again on his face, warm and sad and very _Zatanna_.

“I think you’re going to be very powerful if you continue training like you have been. You have a great potential, Stiles; you’ve only just started to tap into it,” she tells him, pressing her hands to his arms, her small hands warm and gentle against the cool fabric of his t-shirt.

He gives a jerky nod before taking a breath. “I definitely don’t plan on quitting. Not if I can help it,” he tells her, smiling wanly, knowing it’s not anywhere near its usual brightness. He feels suddenly tired, emotionally. Homesick, longing for his friends, feeling that his time here is coming to a definite end.

She gives a small, encouraging nod of her own while giving his biceps another gentle squeeze.

“Go and shower and get something to eat. We’ll pick up here tomorrow.” The dismissal is gentle, the order to take care of himself underlying it. It has him smiling and shaking his head as he makes his way, slow and careful, out of the training room.

The trip to the borrowed quarters is entirely uneventful, and it lets his mind wander. Quiet, peaceful, and seeming to be one of the many times when the entire place is quiet. That isn’t to say that there aren’t numerous people around, but it’s not nearly as busy as he imagines it would be if there were a genuine crisis. It allows him to retreat into his room, to enjoy his shower, and to close his eyes for just a moment.

To breathe, to find his anchor in the memories of Derek, to plot his next step when he gets home. He can only imagine how nuts his dad has gone with him being missing; he wonders if it’s been blamed on Donovan. Part of him hopes so; the little asshole deserved to go to prison forever and never emerge. But, then, the kid had gotten some kind of ‘upgrade’; on que, the scar on his shoulder gives a phantom ache, a reminder of how he’d been attacked in the parking lot of his high school. Chased into it, and of course the aim had been to corner him in the library, but he’d never even _made_ it.

Instead, he’d ended up in a dark alleyway, saved from meeting the pavement by Superman. 

He takes a breath full of steam, lets it clear trough his chest and his sinuses. Feels the breath escape from him as he shuts the water off, toweling off roughly after stepping from the utilitarian shower stall. He feels lucky that the thing seems to have been made with tall people in mind, because otherwise he might have had issues.

He dresses in clean boxers that Kara had gifted him with, another of the training t-shirts with the DEO logo on the front right, and more sweats. It’s not like he doesn’t love sweats, but he’s _really_ starting to miss his jeans.

Once he’s redressed and his converse are back on his feet, he takes to wandering the quiet halls. And when he wanders into her, he thinks he maybe should have seen it coming; he’s run into Helena and John and even Laura, so it was only a matter of time before he interacted with _her_.

Her brown eyes are familiar, warm, but her blonde hair is short. Pixie-cut short, in fact. It doesn’t quite make her features sharper, but it’s a close thing. The easiest way to differentiate from Erica, though, is the fact that she’s wearing almost the same thing as him, but with combat boots and thick-looking cargo pants to his sweats and converse. Even more interesting, she seems _comfortable_ in it. A uniform she was _born_ into, if nothing else. It’s not quite right, but it makes some sort of sense given the way her shoulders and stance falls.

“John told me about you,” she informs him, cutting right to it, not even saying _hi_. It startles him, that blunt way of speaking, but he doesn’t know _why_.

“Hopefully only good things,” he quips, crossing his arms over his chest defensively, retreating back a couple of steps.

“He said your name is Stiles. And he said that he and Helena look like your dead friends,” she tells him, rolling her narrow shoulders in a shrug. He can’t help but gape at her further because that was _not_ what he was expecting. Especially not with the shadowed look on her face.

“Well, he was right on both counts,” he grunts, tightening his hold on himself, hunching in and making himself a smaller target. Like that would change the directness of her words at all. _Fuck_. Erica was never this blunt, _never_. And the words sting, dig into him, make little holes like a thousand little needles per, and he doesn’t know quite what to do with that. How to heal them over, to quit the scabs from oozing and being a target.

“But that included me, too; I look like one of your dead friends.” There are crinkles at the corners of her eyes, something almost pained in her expression and the down-turned corners of her mouth. It tugs deep in his chest, reminding him of a rusted train car and the Kanima and a seizure that shouldn’t have happened. It _hurts_ , almost as much as Helena had hurt.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice sounding like sandpaper had been taken to his vocal cords. His insides, really, because he finds himself flinching away from her, away from the words that he doesn’t think were meant to hurt him, but did. He isn’t sure why this, why _she_ , is so much worse than John was, because there was no reason why. It wasn’t like he’d been any closer to Erica than Boyd, but here her lookalike was, shredding him to pieces, dragging the remains over hot coals.

“I don’t know who she was. But. I’m Courtney. Courtney Whitmore.” Her face is anxious as she holds out her hand, thrusting it at him with a clear demand that he take it and shake it like a normal human being in a normal social interaction where he’s meeting someone for the first time.

It almost makes him laugh.

He takes her hand, shaking it firmly but slowly trying to place her name. It sounds familiar, but he can’t place the hero to the name. Probably not one of the ones he normally read about, in any case.

“Nice to meet you,” he tells her, dredging up some of the enthusiasm he’d had earlier, the steadiness he’d had when he’d gotten back to his feet and created that portal. She gives him a smile, small and appreciative, clearly understanding the struggle but appreciating the effort he was taking to give her the words.

“It is. It’s fascinating; you’re not just from another planet, you’re from an _alternate reality_ ,” she gushes, grinning brightly. And this time, he does laugh, because her enthusiasm is catching.

“There’s really not that much different,” he tells her with a hitch of one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“But there are still differences, even if they’re small,” she tells him, her grin fading a little. Then her face becomes apologetic. “Like us. None of us mean to hurt you.”

“I know. You just… The people who died were friends. And they died violent deaths, and it was _recent_ and—“ the words are rushing out of him, and he’s trying to explain without being a complete _ass_ , because while he doesn’t know who this soldier-woman is, she is soft and bright and so damn much like _Erica_ , it hurts, way more than the other two did, _and he doesn’t know why_.

“Hey,” she cuts him off, coming forward to brace her hands against his shoulders. The words get caught in his throat, and he knows he’s shaking, but he can’t help it. Can’t help but shake in her grasp, wondering if he’ll shake apart or blow away when she lets him go. “It’s okay. You are more than allowed to grieve. I’m just sorry our faces are in yours, making it worse.”

And there is that _look_. The one he saw first on Laura’s face, then on Helena’s, and again on John’s. Now, here it is on Courtney’s face and it has his breath caught in his throat. Because there are so many things it could mean, only one he kind of wishes it does, but he knows that all of his guesses are probably off the mark. All three of them are older, actual _adults_ , with different names and personalities. There’s _no way_.

“C’mon, Batman, cheer up,” she encourages, giving him a little shake. Stronger than it should be, and he wonders if the superhero she is has super strength.

He gives her a strangled noise before pushing forward and _hugging_ her, tightly. Giving the last hug he wishes he could have given Erica, Allison, even Boyd, squeezing her tight. She holds him right back, tucking easily under his chin and pressing her face into his collarbone. He breathes in the clean smell of her, some generic plain shampoo and soap that leave him aching for home, for Scott, for Malia, for _Derek._

The tears that come are a balm, soothing the aching hurt that has been ripped wide open in his heart. He feels like he should apologize for crying into her soft, short hair, but he can’t even form the words. They get caught in his throat, choking him, tangling his vocal cords and tying his tongue in knots. But he thinks she understand, the way her small strong hands gently rub at his back, making soft soothing noises under her breath against him.

He takes the comfort that she gives him, offers him, soaking it in with an eagerness that is surprising even to him. But just like with Zatanna, with Laura, with Superman and Kara and Alex and Wynn and John and Helena, he _trusts_ her. It is freeing and sobering and gives him hope he hadn’t known he needed.

It’s a step forward, in letting go of that ache of loss. It won’t erase it, never, nor will it get rid of the guilt he holds over Allison’s death. But it’s freeing. And that, right now, is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another little hint in this one that Stiles didn't catch; did you?
> 
> Kind of as a side note for Stiles using logomancy: I have him using it b/c Zatanna, who is his teacher, uses that particular form of spell casting. In this case, it's a language quirk he picked up, essentially, that he uses to focuses his spells.
> 
> Spell translation:   
> Latrop, nepo erofeb em = Portal, open before me
> 
> Parts 6 and 7 will more than likely be the last two with Stiles in Supergirl!Earth. Keep an eye out for those parts!
> 
> As always, you can also find me on [tumblr](http://pinkybitesu.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://pinkybitesu.tumblr.com).


End file.
